The Forest King

by Alex Faure

  Darius couldn’t stop himself. He pulled Fionn into his arms and kissed him. His kiss was filled with an aching hunger, a yearning that transcended body and mind, and Fionn responded—or at least, his body did. It was another kiss that left Darius shaken to his core. For there was no spark, no warmth in Fionn. Fionn kissed him like a ghost, as if something vital inside him had been extinguished.

  “Fionn,” Darius choked out, but Fionn was already turning, already making his way back along the mountainside.

  Darius took a step forward. “Fionn.”

  Fionn turned, and they gazed at each other across the clearing. The kiss had shaken something loose in Fionn, or perhaps in Darius, and Darius could read him again. Fionn’s expression was that of a man who had moved past grief to some dark night of the soul from which there was no escaping. His gaze drifted from Darius’s almost absently, as if Darius were already aboard the Roman galley, already halfway to some foreign land he would never see.

  Then he was gone, his lithe figure darting into the woods, and becoming one with them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marcus didn’t question Darius as they made their way back to the men. He shot concerned glances Darius’s way that he didn’t return, and barely noticed.

  The soldiers had finished the splint, and they set off again. They moved more slowly now due to their injured companion, but it mattered little, for they were no longer worried about being followed.

  For Darius, the miles passed in a haze. When they stopped for a brief midday meal, he found himself gazing at a puddle speckled with rain, wondering when the weather had changed. He then realized that he was soaked to his skin, and that his hands had gone white from the chill air that had accompanied the storm.

  He felt as if he’d traded places with his shadow. That he had lost substance, and drifted over the turf and heather as a mere blur of darkness.

  Fionn was gone. He wouldn’t see him again. The words revolved in his mind, around and around, but he could not make sense of them. Marcus eyed him when he refused his rations, but made no comment, and they carried on.

  Towards evening, they came within sight of the harbour. And there was the Roman ship, proud sails furled, calm and graceful among the grey waves.

  It should have filled Darius with joy. Instead, he felt dangerously close to vomiting. Several of the soldiers whooped, one clapping Darius on the back. He muttered something that even he couldn’t interpret to Marcus, and staggered into the heather. He sat on a smooth rock and put his head between his knees. He forced himself to breathe.

  Darius had seen battlefields, and infected wounds, and scenes of barbarian torture—all the horrors that accompanied campaigns in savage lands. He’s survived it all without losing control of his body. And yet Darius had never felt something like this before. It was as if he was coming apart.

  Marcus settled at his side. “Dari.”

  “I’m sorry,” Darius said unthinkingly.

  Marcus took his hand. “What are you sorry for?”

  Darius realized that he didn’t know. “I want to be myself again, Marcus. I want…” He didn’t know how to finish.

  “You will,” Marcus promised. He squeezed Darius’s hand. “Once you get back to civilization, to routine, you will recover. I’ve felt this way myself, Dari. Well—” He made a rueful sound, and looked Darius up and down. “Not exactly like this. You just need time. Why don’t you ask the old man for a leave of absence? Spend a month in Sicily, then finish out your service. It will do you good.”

  “Sicily,” Darius echoed. The word summoned only a sense of emptiness.

  How had he never seen it before? His villa was empty, and so were his groves. His father was dead, and in their old home, Darius would find only a ghost of him. His precious olive trees could not speak. They could not lay warm in his arms at night, nor fill the dark place inside him so completely it would be as if it had never existed.

  “Come, Dari,” Marcus said. He helped Darius to his feet. “We’re almost there.”

  Darius allowed himself to be helped, allowed himself to be borne along with the other soldiers. The men eyed Darius with sympathy—no doubt they thought him overcome with relief at the prospect of his salvation.

  Salvation, Darius thought. It didn’t feel like salvation. It felt like going to the gallows.

  As they drew nearer to the harbour, Darius could make out a number of small figures down on the beach. They were dressed in Celtic clothing, and seemed to be in the process of loading crates onto carts. Several Roman soldiers were assisting them. Two rowboats, one weighted with cargo and heading ashore, another empty and returning to the ship, could be spied among the grey waves.

  “What is that?” Darius said.

  Marcus followed his gaze. “Oh. A little going-away present for the Robogdi. Agricola thought supplying them with weapons and explosives would decrease their numbers.”

  Darius had to force himself to focus. “Decrease the Robogdi’s numbers?”

  “Well, yes—Agricola promised the Volundi a similar arsenal, after all, in return for your release. But as you know, the old man rarely does anything with only one motive. We’ve heard that the Volundi and the Robogdi are at war, or soon to be.”

  Marcus looked as if he was about to say more, but then he stopped himself with a grimace. He touched Darius’s shoulder. “Ah, Dari. I’m sorry. Perhaps I should have waited to tell you?”

  “He wants them to destroy each other.” Darius’s mouth was dry. His stomach may have been filled with ash.

  Marcus sighed. “It’s no more than they deserve, isn’t it? After what they did to us? I know you care about that demon prince of yours, and perhaps most of what happened was his father’s doing—I heard the old king died recently. But it is fitting. Can’t you see that?”

  When Darius didn’t reply, Marcus sighed again. “I can’t blame you for loving that creature. He fights like a whirlwind, and he’s…well. I’m no poet, so I won’t try to put his appearance into words. I daresay even they’d have trouble with it. He’s strange in a way that reminds me of you, though on the surface you have little in common.”

  That pulled Darius back to himself. “You think me strange?”

  Marcus let out a breath of laughter. “Has no one ever told you that you are? It’s your ability to win friends, Dari. To shape men’s impulses and loyalties. It’s uncanny. Agricola calls it your silver tongue. I think it’s more than that. You don’t just convince your men to follow you, or your enemies to hear you out—you make them want to be convinced.”

  Darius shook his head. “Fionn is nothing like that. He dislikes the company of others, though his kingship forces it upon him. He is prickly. Difficult. He swings from cruelty to kindness as easily as you swing a sword. He is—”

  Darius couldn’t continue. He gazed at the tiny figures of the Robogdi, ants staggering beneath their burdens.

  One of us should enjoy it.

  Had Fionn known what Rome had promised the Robogdi? Heard rumours of it, perhaps, during his visits to the other villages? Had he known what he was facing, understood how small the Volundi’s chances of surviving were?

  “I can’t leave him,” Darius murmured.

  “What?”

  Darius raised his voice. “I can’t leave him. Marcus, I have to go back.”

  He was already turning as he spoke, already focusing his thoughts on the terrain he’d just traversed. Marcus caught him by the arm. “Dari, what is this madness?”

  “I have to go back.” Darius felt surety coursing through him like wine. He had to move fast—perhaps he could even catch Fionn before he made it back to Glenvaneach. He would call his name, see him turn. Pull him into his arms and chase that dark look from his face with kisses.

  But no, of course he couldn’t catch up to Fionn. But he could make it back to Glenvaneach as fast as he could, in time to give Fionn a full account of what he’d seen. He began to jog back over the hillside.

  Marcus caught up to him. He
put his hands on Darius’s shoulders, forcing him to stop. “Darius. You have to stop. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  Darius tried to break away, but Marcus only tightened his grip. “Darius.”

  Darius met his eyes. He saw confusion there, as well something approaching horror. But of course Marcus couldn’t fathom the idea of remaining in Hibernia, let alone remaining for the sake of Fionn. He assumed Darius had gone mad—on that point, Darius wasn’t sure he disagreed. But madness or no, getting on that ship was impossible. He couldn’t leave Fionn to the mercy of the Robogdi, nor his own Celtic instincts for savagery, which could only escalate the violence between the two tribes.

  But it went deeper than that. Darius couldn’t leave Fionn. He wondered how long he’d been denying the truth. Since that night in the roundhouse? Earlier? No wonder Marcus thought him mad, given what Fionn had done, and what he was. And yet none of it mattered. What Darius felt for Fionn was beyond either love or hatred. It was a kinship of the soul.

  “Oh, Marcus,” Darius said. “I’m sorry.”

  Something behind Marcus’s eyes wilted, and he seemed to realize that Darius wasn’t changing his mind. “Dari. How can you hope to survive here?”

  “I don’t know,” Darius said. “But I know I won’t survive if I leave him. Not really. If you want to tell the general I went mad, feel free. Or tell him I’ve fallen desperately in love—but if you do, please don’t mention Fionn’s name. His secret can’t be known.”

  Marcus looked at a loss. “We can’t give the Volundi their promised ransom if you don’t come with us. The Robogdi will destroy them—and you.”

  “As you said, they would destroy each other anyway,” Darius said grimly. “Agricola is wise.”

  “Even if you do survive, you may not have another chance to return,” Marcus pressed. “Agricola has no interest in continuing the campaign here. He has his eye on pushing his way into Caledonia, and the Emperor is reluctant to commit more men to Hibernia that are needed elsewhere. What will you do if you change your mind? Steal a rowboat and sail to Britannia?”

  “I won’t change my mind, my friend.” Darius’s voice was quiet but firm. He reached out and touched Marcus’s face. “I wish I knew a way to thank you for what you’ve done for me. I care for you, Marcus. Perhaps in another life, we could have—”

  “Oh, shut up, Dari.” Marcus brushed Darius’s hand away, then wiped the damp from his eyes. “I won’t have you humouring me. And I won’t give up on you, either. I can’t abandon a friend to this cursed green hovel, no matter how lovesick he is. I’ll figure out a way to check up on you.”

  Darius nodded, because he knew it was what Marcus needed to say. Goodbyes were always difficult, but last goodbyes were like swallowing molten metal. Darius clasped Marcus in his arms, and Marcus hugged him back with such ferocity that Darius could scarcely breathe.

  Then Darius was turning, and hefting one of the small satchels they’d carried, which held a canteen and some food. The soldiers wouldn’t be needing it now. Then he was jogging again, the wind in his face, the green grass soft and spongey beneath his feet. Crushed wildflowers released their foreign but now-familiar scents into the air, a greeting or a curse, or some fell combination.

  He was going back to Fionn.

  He was going back home.

  Thanks for reading!

  Darius and Fionn’s story continues in:

  The Soldier Mage (Green Labyrinth, Book Three)—Coming Spring 2020

  Follow me on Twitter: @alexfaureauthor